Daily Hangover
by Alfendi Layton
Summary: "I'm starting to wonder why I keep this demented thing around. Maybe I'm addicted to it. Like I'm addicted to the cartoons."


Thought I'd try writing a Mask fan fiction. Please read and review. Slashes mean that The Mask is talking when not in control of Stanley. The Italics won't work for some reason. This chapter will be in Stan's point of view.

* * *

I lay flat on my bed, listening to the comical sounds of old Warner cartoons blaring from my run-down VCR television set. I've seen these cartoons more times than I care to admit. I could probably quote the characters word for word. People ask me, (my land lady, mostly), why I watch the same ones over and over again. They're my escape. I honestly think I'm addicted to them. I've watched these old toons every night when I'd get home from work for probably the last six, seven years, give or take. A part from Milo, they're all I have. They make me smile. I've been told by multiple fellow employees that I should grow up, that cartoons are for kids. But, why should I give up what makes me happy? It's my copping mechanism. It's not like I'm drinking or snorting cocaine. I'm just watching some harmless cartoons is all.

I sigh, and roll over to my side, throwing the comforter over myself.

I'm lonely again. And not the, I'm-never-going-to-find-Ms.-Perfect-lonely. The kind of lonely that makes you wish that someone would stop by and visit. Even if it was someone you didn't like. At least the extra company would drown out the sound of your own heart beat, even trough the blaring sound of anvils hitting the wolf's head.

I close my eyes and wait for sleep to take me, but all I hear is The Mask. It calls to me, taunting me almost. I don't want to wear it though, because I can never remember what I did in the few hours I spent as a psychotic womanizing jackass. Plus, every time I wake up after The Mask has released his hold of me, I have a hang over and there are cigarette butts all over my apartment.

/Why are you in bed? It'd Friday night. It's the beginning of the weekend end! What's the matter Stanly, too pussy to party?/

"Shut up." I mumble as I bury my head under the pillow. I've already decided I wasn't going to use The Mask unless I ever really, really, REALLY, needed to. And that doesn't mean fighting crime. This isn't Gotham, and I'm not Batman. This is Edge, and I'm Stanley. That's it.

It's quiet again, (save for the TV), and I can feel myself drifting to the edge of dreams. I'm almost there, when I hear him talking at me, (not to me).

/You're a pathetic excuse for a man, you know that? If you're not gonna let me out, the least you could do is show me you can live a little./

I turn my back to The Mask. My mind-set on a good nights sleep. I need to sleep. But he doesn't CARE what I need. He doesn't need to sleep. Not at night anyways. I assume he does all his sleeping in the day while I'm at work. I don't know, but my body can't take much more of this. I work all day, sitting in a chair, doing paper work or speaking with my clients. Then at the end of the day, I drag my old tired body home for this maniac to abuse it on a nightly basis. I don't drink or smoke, but as I've already mentioned, he seems to do it in excess. I just can't do it anymore.

/Whimp. I'm not asking you to jump outta a plane. Just to have a little fun./

I find myself turning around, "What kind of fun?" oh, sweet Jesus, I'm actually talking to this possessed piece of wood.

I can practically feel him grin. Feel, not see. I have no idea what he...what I, look like when wearing The Mask. Again, I can't remember what happens when my world fades to black and he takes over.

/Bitchin'! I hid some tequila in the oven. Go get it./ he demanded.

I threw the warm comforter off myself, going to retrieve the alcohol. "You put it the oven? That's kinda dangerous. What if I'd turned the oven on?"

/Quit yer whining./

I'm not much for cursing. It just never really suited me. But when he says, 'quit yer whining', all I hear is the biggest 'fuck you' on the face of the planet.

Maybe I'm picking up some bad habits from him. Or I'm hearing things the way they aren't being said. I don't know. I'm sleepy.

I lazily stumble into my 'kitchen', bending down to the oven door, opening it and finding the tequila easily.

I bring it back to my bed, sitting down facing The Mask.

"Okay, now what?"

/What are you, stupid? Drink it, moron./

The glass bottle feels heavy in my hands. Like my body knows it's alcohol before I've even drunk it. "Why? I don't really drink. Never appealed to me." I say honestly, not really protesting, just asking out of pure curious why he thought I should drink it.

/Lightweight./ he scoffs, laughing at me.

"Fine." my patience for him is gone, and I'm doing what he says.

I don't bother with a glass. I just twist the metal cap off and start chugging.

I can hear him through the rushed sounds of my swallowing, cheering me on, telling me that real men drink. But in my mind I think, 'how many 'real men' drink tequila?'

I slow down. Taking a break to breathe. My cheeks are red, I'm sure, they're certainly warm. The fiery liquid flows down my body. It's not long until it pools into my stomach, and I'm already feeling a little nauseated. I bring the bottle back up to my mouth, but put it back down just as quick.

"I can't drink the rest of this." my tongue is thick, I'd downed half the bottle, so it was normal.

A condescending laugh, /Like I said, lightweight./

It was probably my half drunkenness that would explain my haughty attitude. I don't know, but I was angry at him. I was angry at something that didn't technically exist unless wasn't attached to my face. I guess that was a pretty solid sign I was drunk.

I sneer at him and boldly resume my drinking. Things were getting fogging, and it was getting harder to complete coherent thoughts, but my pride had the best of me, and I continued to drink until the bottle was empty. I felt a little proud of myself when I took the bottle from my lips to see it was all gone.

"Eat that!~" I slurred, hurling the bottle across the room at The Mask, which lay about five feet in front of me on the dresser, like a stereotypical drunk.

The Mask giggled, I think he did anyway, and asked, /Feels right, doesn't it?/

It did feel right. Other than the burning in my stomach, I felt great.

"I showed you didn't I?" I gloated stupidly. Apparently, I'd thought that I had accomplished something actually important. "Now who's the man?"

/You're still not a man./ he said simply.

Frustrated, I jumped from my seat on the bed, staggering towards The Mask, "Oh, yeah? And you are a man? You're nothing," I sniffled loudly, followed by a hiccup, "Nothing but a dyed piece of wood."

I thought I'd won the argument. I was satisfied, anyhow. I felt my clever comeback had won the debate hands-down. Of course, I was wrong. The Mask always thought ahead. He always a comeback that was a thousand times better than what anyone else could ever come up with.

/If you're such a man, then why are you so afraid to let me out?/

I fell right for his trap. Stupidly, I scooped up The Mask and stuck it on my face with out a word. Before I knew it, my apartment was spinning in circles around me, and by the time I'd realized what I'd done, my apartment began to fade to black. And then, nothing.


End file.
